It sits across from my desk and makes me smile whenever I see it. Partly because of what it is and partly because of the people it reminds me of: my dad, my daughter, the little girl I once was, and teenaged me who devoured its pages at Grandmother's house on a yearly basis.
The top is black with large letters. Although its words sound as if it provides instruction for ending a life, the words contained within speak to the dignity of life for all. Its simplistic artwork reminds me of the trees I climbed as a girl; the ones that often cause me to wonder how a tree-climbing, book-loving girl wound up in a job that either uses technology to teach or requires me to sit at a desk.
The words on the lower part speak to a mystery. A gifted writer who shared one story and was a friend to another literary mystery. In some ways, a typical southern woman, but also a heroine to many. A lover of privacy whose quiet life has raised more questions that it has answered. Is she Scout? Is she more of a Boo Radley? Is she the mockingbird and has he own privacy been violated?
A gift in many ways. The contents of its pages were a gift to a middle child who sought fairness and saw herself in its primary character. The man of the book provided a way describe my own father to others. The item itself was a gift from the one who made me a mom and reminds me of our shared love of books and words and fairness.
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